


4:49

by totaldwama



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: F/F, Slow Burn, burn so slow you can call it the sun, cuz its gonna explode in about 5 billion years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 20:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totaldwama/pseuds/totaldwama
Summary: But she's just a girl with a cheap, couple-dollar pen, not a quill. Her ink is a blue-tinted black, not red, and the sun isn't anywhere near setting. The light that bathes her is a boring colorless stream, and the warmth that she feels is naught but the sun.





	4:49

**Author's Note:**

> Do I Tag This As Angst Because Velouria Can't Accept The Fact She Isn't Mitama: The Story Of My Life

_She's cute, with hair that weird shade right between red and blonde that's not quite orange, but not quite gold either. Her eyes are a spectacular yellow, though, framed perfectly by eyelashes just the right length to compliment her face._

  
_Natural eyelashes,_ Velouria thinks, idly tapping the tip of her pen on the last period. She'd had her eyes on the new girl all day, and unlike some of the upperclasswomen, there wasn't a single flake of mascara rubbed off on her cheeks.

  
_Her face is rounded, not in an offputting sort of way, but not in an utterly adorable kind of way, pretty as she is. She's not quite a wolf simply fattened up for the winter, but she isn't a helpless whelp of a canine either. Somewhere in the middle. A fluffy adolescent fox, clever, but not quite cunning yet, just making its way through life with a grin on its face._

  
Velouria looks up, studying the clock on the library on the opposite side of the street. 4:32. Father is 12 minutes late.

  
She supposes she could walk to the library and write there, safe from the summer heat, but she finds herself oddly oppposed to that idea. Something about being outdoors appeals to her now.

  
She normally isn't the biggest fan of her usual place, sat outside the school building, back pressed up against a rough exposed brick wall, fresh notebook laid across her legs, but today... today, it's just fine.

  
A robin lands in a tree just a few yards away, looking around rapidly, as birds, Velouria's noticed, often do.

  
Velouria scribbles a decidedly bird-shaped blob on a line below her previous writing, careful to only pick up again with proper spacing between the blob and the words.  
She doesn't know why, but it bugs her when she doesn't do it right. Some people are fine with being uneven, but she hates it, and that's just that.

  
_Do you ever look at animals and wonder why they do what they do? Whether it is instinct, or a beast, as wild as it may be, has its own little quirks? Many like to personify domestic animals to the point of unhealthy humanization, but could it be that those that we dare not disturb apply those qualities to themselves, in some unfathomable way? Those, who are not trapped by our ideals, may share them in their own light?_

  
_We dream of being the most unique, the most beautiful, the kindest and fairest of them all, but in our souls, we are carnal creatures, prone to destruction; but perhaps it is our desire to destroy that drives us to create._

  
Velouria taps the period, imagining herself as a historic playwright, quill poised in hand as she rebelled against the pale off-white of her parchment, oily red ink pooling and dripping down the sheet, both like blood and fine wine in appearance as crimson candles dripped hot wax onto a cluttered table, papers scattered across like a wild expanse of uneven, jagged mountains, great spires of deep red rock covered in sunset-tinted snow, contrasting gorgeously with the overall warmth of the scene. The sun would filter through sepia windows, bathing the room in rustic though by no means dim light as if it were a roaring fire right outside, a perfect setting for what surely revolutionary events were about to take place.

  
But she's just a girl with a cheap, couple-dollar pen, not a quill. Her ink is a blue-tinted black, not red, and the sun isn't anywhere near setting. The light that bathes her is a boring colorless stream, and the warmth that she feels is naught but the sun.

  
It's not disappointing, it's just... boring, she thinks to herself, shutting her notebook and staring down the road as Father's car approaches.

  
It's 4:49.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> "quick tag police give me a tag for 'this character is overly dramatic when she writes because she wants to be a cool 1800's era poet and also is in denial about being a lesbian'"  
> "Emily Dickinson."


End file.
